


More Momentary Swift Than Thought

by rinwins



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwins/pseuds/rinwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are one of the top Problem Sleuths in the city and <em>why the fuck do you have wings</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Momentary Swift Than Thought

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by winditier's [adorable tumblr post](http://winditier.tumblr.com/post/52084790740)!

Morning spreads reluctantly over the city, stretching arms of sunlight through streets and into windows like some poor sap groping for the alarm after a too-long night. You wake up with your head on a stack of case files and your back in a series of vicious knots. Just like every time this happens, you swear to yourself it is absolutely the last time you fall asleep at your desk.

You unstick your cheek from a manila folder and stretch too, with some difficulty- your back really does feel awful, tense and heavy, and you kind of feel like you might fall over backwards. Pun not intended. Oh GPI do you ever need some coffee.

The coffee machine is intact and, miracle of miracles, even has a cup’s worth of coffee still sitting in the pot. It’s probably been sitting there for hours. It’s probably awful. You’re pretty sure you don’t care. You lever yourself laboriously out of your chair and start to pick your way over to the corner.

But you don’t make it, because something largeish is attached to your back and you feel it brush the desk. The sensation shivers through you and you jerk away, causing _more_ sensations, and then you jump some more and the whatever-it-is attached to you sweeps all your case folders off the desk and you yell and you actually do fall over. You twist mid-fall to avoid knocking over the coffee machine as well, and wind up landing face-down on the floor with your forehead on a manila folder. You think it might be the same one you fell asleep on.

The whatever-it-is attached to your back settles around you like a heavy blanket. You still can’t tell what it is by the sensations alone, but you can see white feathers.

You are one of the top Problem Sleuths in the city and _why the fuck do you have wings_.

\---

Your first course of action, obviously, is to lie on the floor and quietly flip the fuck out. You do that for some time. Then you decide to call Pickle Inspector.

The phone is _not_ intact, because when is it ever. You retrieve the receiver from under the desk and the cord from the fake safe (why did you put the cord in the fake safe? You probably couldn’t get the real one open) and eventually find the dial in your inside left coat pocket, and put the phone back together while trying to move as little as possible. Then you dial star-heart-horseshoe and wait while PI’s phone rings.

He picks up on the sixth ring. Please tell me you’re in your office, you say. He says obviously he’s in his office, how else would he be answering his office phone. You say oh. Then you say, well, stop being in your office and come over here and be in _my_ office. He says why, and you say because of reasons, and he says that isn’t a reason and you say the hell it isn’t, reasons are reasons, that’s why they’re called reasons, and he says augh fine and hangs up. Somewhere behind you, the real safe swings slowly open.

You wait. You consider getting that coffee while you wait, but face-down on the floor is the only remotely comfortable position with your- with the- in the state you’re currently in. Plus these manila folders are getting to be like old friends.

The square of sunlight you can see advances several inches across the floor, and eventually Pickle Inspector turns up. Not through your office door, like you would expect if you expected anything to make sense around here, but through the safe. He explains that his door was on the fritz again so he had to take the elevator out of his office and go up the poker room’s fireplace and out through the speakeasy and the piano room to your back room, and why are you lying on the floor?

You cover your face with the nearest folder and spend a handful of seconds swearing.

Oh, PI says, you’ve got your Arbiter wings again, are we having another boss fight?

_No we are not having another boss fight_ , you explode, as much as you can explode while lying on the floor. You don’t know _why_ you have these stupid wings, you tell him, and you can’t work like this and you need him to figure out how to make them go _away_.

It’s probably imaginary spillover, PI says, let him look at them. You say look away, they ain’t going anywhere. Unfortunately.

He says he could look at them a lot better if you weren’t on the floor. You throw the folder at him.

\---

You don’t remember having so much difficulty controlling these stupid things. Then again, the last time you were amped up from the battle, full of adrenaline and stat bonuses, plus you were running Sepulchritude which probably didn’t hurt. This time you have none of those advantages, and every time the wings brush something- which is frequently, your office isn’t that big- the jolt runs straight down your spine.

Eventually PI helps you up. You have to turn your chair around so you can sit on it backwards. At least that probably looks kind of badass, and the back of the chair is something to brace yourself on to keep yourself from feeling like you’re going to tip over.

You try not to wince too much while PI inspects the wings. The sensation isn’t even unpleasant, exactly, just strange. You can’t decide if it feels more like someone rubbing your back or brushing your hair, or maybe picking up one of your arms and just moving it around. You don’t think you like it very much.

PI says he doesn’t know why you want to get rid of them, they look nice. You say you don’t want to look _nice_ , you’re supposed to be _hardboiled_ , and he says why can’t you be hardboiled with wings? You think about it and you don’t entirely know why. You tell him you just can’t, who ever heard of a hardboiled detective with wings, this shit is just stupid. PI goes hmmm and keeps inspecting.

He inspects the base, where the wings connect to your back. You can feel fingers on your skin, which probably means the stupid things tore your coat and your shirt, which means you’re going to have to get new ones. You grumble about that to yourself for a while, if only to distract yourself from how weird this feels. PI goes on to inspect the joints, moving them carefully, and oh hey maybe you’re getting a bit of control over the stupid things because you can move them better with his hands as a guide. He extends one wing to its full span- actually kind of impressive, you catch yourself thinking- and then combs his fingers carefully over the feathers.

You grimace at the initial pull, then relax as the feathers settle. It still feels strange, but maybe you don’t dislike it as much as you thought you did. You rearrange yourself on the chair and hold that wing out so PI can keep doing what he’s doing.

It takes a lot longer than you thought it would. The sensations go from strange to strange-but-sort-of-pleasant to outright soothing, and you start to drift off, still holding on to the back of the chair. At some point PI switches to the other wing. You hold that one out for him too, noting vaguely that you can move them on your own now. They even feel a little better- you can’t feel each individual feather, thank GPI, you don’t need to be that kind of overwhelmed today, but you can feel that they’re lying straighter than they were. By the time PI finishes his inspection you actually don’t hate the things.

He steps back. You move a wing so he can get by, around to where you can see him. So can you get them off, you ask.

He gives you one of those disconcerting stares. Get them off, he says, what? You open your mouth to yell something, but then he says, oh, right, he forgot about that, he got distracted neatening them up. He says they really are very nice.

You thunk your head into the back of the chair, but not very hard. Oh for the love of GPI, you say, you needed help, not _grooming_. PI says that _was_ helping, and don’t you feel better now, because you look like you feel better.

You stare at him. You _do_ feel better. Damnit.

Tentatively, you stand up, and manage not to brush the wings against anything this time. You can sort of see your reflection in the safe door. You scrutinize it. The white sweep of feathers behind your hat and coat actually does look pretty cool. You fold your wings carefully behind you, and imagine unfurling them again on the dark streets of the city, striking fear into the hearts of mobsters and thieves. That, you admit, could be badass.

It’s not exactly hardboiled, but you think you can work with it.


End file.
